Page 23 of The Dressmaker's Gift
It felt like such an indulgence to be able to talk about such things, sharing their memories with each other, and Mireille found herself wishing that she had more time to spend with this young man. They were approaching the Marais now, though, and in a few more minutes she would hand him over to Monsieur and Madame Arnaud. Then he would be spirited away on the unseen routes of the secret network, passed from one safe house to the next until a guide could lead him on the difficult and dangerous journey over the Pyrenees. She longed to be able to tell him her name, and to give him her address so that this comfortable feeling of connection between them could be continued one day. But she knew that to do so would place the pair of them – and a whole network of other people besides – in a perilous position if he was caught.
As they neared the narrow entrance at the end of the street where the Arnauds lived, she gently extracted her arm from his, feeling a strong pang of reluctance as she did so, longing to stay close to him for a little longer.
She heard the shouting just as she was about to turn the corner. There was a harsh cry of ‘HALT!’ followed by a woman’s scream.
In that split second, Mireille saw, with horror, the scene that was unfolding outside the safe house. A black car was parked at the door and an officer in the dark uniform of the Gestapo was pushing Madame Arnaud into the back of it. At the same time, another soldier had pushed Monsieur Arnaud to the ground and was aiming a couple of vicious kicks at his belly.
The young man’s fists clenched tight at his sides and his whole body tensed, as if he were about to spring forward and try to intervene.
Mireille realised with horrible clarity that their presence would surely seal the Arnauds’ fate once and for all, and their own as well. There was nothing they could do to help. She grabbed the young man’s arm and pulled him onwards, passing the end of the narrow street where the safe house, which had provided refuge to so many escapees over the past year, had suddenly become safe no longer.
In the dusk of the clear Paris evening, Claire had pushed open the tiny square window in her bedroom to allow the evening air to flood in. Soon darkness would fall and she would have to close the window and pull down the blackout blind, shutting out the stars. But now she breathed in the faint smells of coffee and cigarette smoke and listened to the sounds of clinking china which wafted up on the night-time air from the café opposite the end of the road. The streets were far quieter these days since there was very little traffic. Most of Paris’s inhabitants either walked or cycled everywhere. With increasing frequency, clients were sending skirts in to be remade as culottes, which were more practical for wearing on a bicycle whilst still retaining a degree of elegance.
From this height, she couldn’t see the street immediately below, but she heard the key turn in the lock and the front door open and close. She was always anxious when Mireille was out on her own, watching for her safe return, so it was with relief that she heard the footsteps climbing the metal stairs up to the apartment.
She pulled her window shut and drew the blind then skipped into the hallway to open the door for her friend. To her surprise, a tall young man wearing a gaberdine raincoat stood behind Mireille. Claire knew better than to ask questions, so she simply stepped aside and let them in.
The room that had been Esther’s – the room where she had given birth to her baby – hadn’t been used by any of the seamstresses who’d lived in the attic rooms since. Claire and Mireille had always kept the door shut, as opening it would have brought back too many memories, especially for Mireille, who had witnessed Esther’s death when the German plane had dived low to machine-gun the river of refugees fleeing Paris at the time of the invasion. But now they needed somewhere to hide the young Free French soldier for a few days until a new escape plan could be put in place for him.
Claire could see the fear that flickered in Mireille’s eyes – although she tried to hide it and remain her usual calm and practical self – as they discussed their options. They both knew that the capture of the Arnauds by the Gestapo meant that one of the network’s escape routes had effectively been shut down. Claire shivered when she thought of them being taken to the Avenue Foch for questioning. How long would they be able to hold out if they were tortured? Would they be able to avoid divulging any useful information for the first twenty-four hours of their internment, giving the otherpasseurstime to cover their tracks and allowing the safe houses to be shut down? Would Mireille be the next member of the network to be arrested if the Arnauds gave the Gestapo what little information they knew about her? And if Mireille were arrested, then would Claire be as well? There would be no arguing their way out of things if they were discovered harbouring a fugitive. But it seemed there was no other option: the apartment beneath the eaves was needed as a safe house now.
She and Mireille moved aside the row of mannequins which were being stored in Esther’s old room. Each one had been made to the exact measurements of a particular client, although more and more were having to be put into storage these days as clients disappeared or were unable to afford the soaring prices of couture. As the rooms on the floors below had filled up with dressmaking forms, some of the overflow had found its way to the spare rooms on the fifth floor.
They made up the bed, each donating one of their own blankets, while the young man perched on a chair in the sitting room and wolfed down the heel of bread which Mireille had given him, spreading it with the last scrapings from a jar of rillettes which were more fat than meat.
Although they tried to work quietly, Vivi heard the to-ings and fro-ings and came out of her room to investigate. When Mireille briefly explained what had happened, Vivi winced with shock.
Keeping her voice low, although her tone was urgent, Vivi said, ‘You know this is putting everything at a terrible risk, Mireille. We can’t allow the strands of the network to become entangled with one another. His presence here threatens all of us, right to the very top.’
Claire wondered what she meant by this, but noticed that Mireille seemed to understand the significance as she didn’t ask Vivi to explain further.
‘We have no option,’ Mireille whispered back. ‘What else can we do? Turn him out on to the streets with nowhere to go? He’ll be sure to be arrested sooner or later, and he knows where we live now. Even though he’s tough, he’s only human. You know what methods they use to get information out of people. Hiding him here is the safest option. The Arnauds don’t know my real name and they don’t know anything about my background so there’s very little they can give away.’
‘And the dyer? What if they divulge his role? If he’s arrested, we all go down.’
Mireille’s chin lifted and her dark curls trembled. Claire recognised the signs: this was her friend’s look of determination, not fear, and they all knew how stubborn she could be when she’d made her mind up about something.
‘I know, Vivi,’ Mireille replied. ‘But we all understood what we were getting in to. I still believe this is our safest option.’
A sad smile played over Vivi’s face as she seemed to accept that Mireille was right. ‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly, ‘we’ll hide him then. But none of the others downstairs must suspect a thing.’ She turned towards Claire. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course!’ Claire retorted, indignantly. ‘I’m just as involved as Mireille is. As involved as you, too, I expect,’ she couldn’t help adding.
Vivienne shot her a wary glance, but then let it go. ‘Come on then, we need to get him sorted out for the night. And this bedroom door needs to be kept locked from the inside. He won’t be able to risk moving around in the daytime. You know how these floorboards creak. Mademoiselle Vannier will be up here like a shot if she hears anyone up here when we’re all supposed to be in theatelier– especially if she suspects one of us might be hiding a man!’
Claire found it hard to sleep that night. She tossed and turned in the darkness and thought, at one point, that she heard the almost imperceptible pad of bare feet passing her door. Perhaps she’d imagined it, or maybe it was just one of the others going to use the bathroom, she told herself. When she did fall into a restless sleep, it was filled with troubled dreams of men in black uniforms chasing her through the streets, their boots loud on the pavement. As they caught up with her, she woke with a cry to find Vivi crouching by her bed, shaking her awake.
‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here. Everything will be alright.’
‘I was having a nightmare,’ Claire gasped, still shaken.
‘Shh, I know. You were talking in your sleep, I heard you through the wall. But it’s okay. You’re alright. We’re all okay. Try to get back to sleep.’
Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t want to sleep any more, in case the dreams come back.’
‘Come on then.’ Vivi held out a hand. We’ll go and make a tisane. We need to be up in half an hour, in any case.’
They tiptoed past Mireille’s door and crept into the kitchen to put the water on to heat, then sat in a companionable silence, cupping their hands around their bowls and inhaling the sweet-sharp smell of lemon balm tea.
